Addiction
by Lia Kada
Summary: This story takes place after book one, when Katniss returns from the Games and shares a kiss with Gale. Haymitch x Katniss romance. Reviews appreciated. x
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This story takes place after book one, when Katniss returns from the Games and shares a kiss with Gale. Also, disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games series, etc. Of course._

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><p><strong>Addiction<strong>: Chapter One

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><p>"I thought I'd be seeing you, sweetheart," Haymitch says as I enter his malodorous, filthy home. I can just barely see a grin on his face in the dimly lit kitchen. But it isn't a genuine, happy grin. It never is with Haymitch Abernathy. It's an I-feel-your-pain grin. It's an I-know-exactly-what-you're-going-to-do grin. It's an I'm-sorry-it-had-to-come-to-this grin.<p>

"You're not going to yell at me to get out?" I ask. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I could use the company," he admits reluctantly, and then mumbles so softly I can hardly hear him, "Your company."

I disregard the last bit; it's surely the alcohol speaking. Haymitch hates me. He just chose me over Peeta in the Games because he knew I would be more likely to survive. I sigh as I think of Peeta and how I have messed everything up. He's too good a person, Peeta Mellark. Too kind, too giving, and too different. We're on the opposite sides of the spectrum, and I can't just overcome that. I feel horrible compared to him, the angel of a boy.

I pull out a creaky wooden chair, shocked at myself for not minding the despicable state of his home. There's too much on my mind to care about the shattered glass, peeling paint, moldy walls, and rotting food. The chair quavers violently as I sit in it. I turn to Haymitch and whisper desperately, "Liquor. Now."

"Whatever the victor wants," he replies mischievously, his face so close to mine that I can see multicolored flecks within his cold, grey eyes. The potency of the alcohol in the air causes me to tear up, but I grab the bottle he presents to me and down its contents in less than twenty seconds.

When I pull away from the bottle, everything is blurry. It's as if the glass bottle is the only thing that makes sense, the only thing keeping me centered and able to hang onto sanity by a thread. Without it, everything crashes into oblivion. I feel a consistent thudding in my head and a burning deep in my throat. A thirst for more of the most beautiful and most horrendous substance in the world.

"More," I beg hoarsely, realizing that nothing else matters, and in that moment, I understand Haymitch.

I could faintly detect a flicker of guilt, of pain on his visage before he obliges to my request. "Whatever you want, sweetheart," he purrs, and another bottle is mine.

I finish this one twice as fast, though maybe that's because half of its contents spill onto my face, neck, and shirt. I sway like a fragile tree in the wind, threatening to collapse. And I do. I feel so incredibly drained. Everything is spinning and nothing makes sense except for the colossal thirst within me. And then everything is black.

The next thing I know, Haymitch is over me, pouring ice-cold water on my face. A searing pain in my temples causes small groans to escape from my throat. I convulse, disoriented and over-tired. At least the world has slowed down.

"Haymitch?" I ask, my eyelids fluttering.

"You can outwit the Capitol and outfight all the tributes, but you can't handle two bottles of liquor," he replies with a bitter chuckle.

I can't help but smile, though half of it is due to disgust. Disgust because Haymitch lives this way. This is his everyday. This is a path he chooses. "How do you live like that?" I ask him sorrowfully. I wonder if he can detect the mixture of pity, abhorrence, and admiration on my face in the darkness of his bedroom.

He's silent for a moment before he sighs deeply, scoots me over, and lies next to me on the bed. His arm is around me, cradling me, and I don't protest, mainly because I need the support right now. We lie together in silence for a while; I can't fathom how long. Then, he speaks.

"When you were drinking, what was your main concern?" he asks.

I'm silent for a while before answering, "Getting more of it."

"Quenching the thirst," we say simultaneously.

"You don't think about anything else. It isn't important," he continues. It's all he has to say for me to realize that I don't look down on him for drinking anymore. I remember that he was in the Games, too. I don't know what happened while he was fighting in the Arena, but I know it wasn't pleasant. The memories haunt him just as much as my memories haunt me, and we both know this.

"You don't think of the Games as much," I finish for him.

He nods. "I can't let the Games control me. I can't stand it."

"But you let the alcohol control you," I counter.

"Out of the Games and alcohol, which one would you rather have control you?" he retorts, knowing my answer.

"I'm sorry for the time I poured cold water on you," I blurt out.

He laughs dryly. "We're even now, aren't we, sweetheart?"

I nod in the darkness, and realize that I'm more like Haymitch than I care to admit. Tonight, I feel like one with him. One being. Without thinking, I raise my head and connect my lips onto his. Our kiss tastes of alcohol. It's cold, from the water, and wet. But it's filled with more fervor than any kiss I shared with Peeta or Gale, and neither of us is quick to separate from the other.

For something that's so blatantly wrong, it feels perfect.

I deserve Haymitch, and Haymitch deserves me.

Anything else is unthinkable.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: This was originally a one-shot but I decided to add just one more chapter. This is that chapter. I will probably write more HaymitchxKatniss stories because it's just really interesting to write out their relationship in whatever form. Enjoy, and remember that reviews make my day._

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><p><strong>Addiction<strong>: Chapter Two

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><p>The next time I awaken, a weak ray of sunlight has penetrated through the grimy layers of dirt coating the bedroom windows. Everything is covered in a green tint, causing Haymitch's face next to me to appear even more sallow and bony than usual. He's skinnier than I've ever seen him and perhaps the palest person in District 12; he doesn't have olive-toned skin like most of us in the Seam. His stringy, dirty-blond hair is spread out over the pillow, and I'm so close that it tickles my cheeks as his body oscillates with each deep breath he takes.<p>

He's sound asleep. In his sleep, Haymitch could almost be a young man. I can't see the pain in his eyes and the way his face contorts when he's thirsty. He looks peaceful, and I smile before I can help myself. That's when I notice that his shirt has been unbuttoned, exposing thick scars that span across his chest and gut. I cringe, realizing that these must be from the Games. I'm thankful that I don't have any scars that bad. Not only do they likely ache and itch, but I have a feeling that they carry so much emotional weight as well. Memories.

As I rub the sleep out of my eyes, trying to ignore the intense pain in my head, I begin to understand that the fact that his shirt is unbuttoned at all is reason to panic. And I do. My heart beats thunderously. What did Haymitch and I do last night? I try to backtrack, but the last thing I can remember is kissing him. I grin automatically before entering a deeper state of alarm. I kissed a forty-year-old man. And I don't regret it. As wrong as it was, it felt right. But what else did we do? And could anyone have seen anything?

"Haymitch," I whisper, my dry lips brushing his left ear.

He mumbles incoherently, rolling onto his side. I notice he's wearing pants and exhale with relief. He's not going to get up anytime soon, though, so I get out of bed and wash up.

My steps are wobbly, like a baby deer's. I notice scratches on my neck and chest as I splash cool water from the bathroom sink onto my face and comb through my hair, which is unbelievably tangled. I braid it quickly and stumble into the kitchen. Opening the fridge confirms my suspicions; Haymitch has no real food. There's liquor and wine and beer everywhere, not to mention shattered glass, but the only source of solid food are some slices of bread and cake that I'm sure Peeta brought over. Just one more reason Peeta's too good for me. Even after Haymitch hurt Peeta by continuously choosing me over him, he brought him food. I'd never do that.

Thinking of Peeta just hurts me. So does thinking of Gale. So I think about Haymitch. I think about last night. For some reason, I'm filled with a giddy sort of feeling that's totally new to me. It's different from my conflicting feelings of love for Peeta or Gale. It's the feeling that I've already made up my mind. It's a wonderful but scary feeling; I'm not sure how it started or where it's going, and it's hard for me to weigh out the possible implications of this romance while my head is throbbing with what has to be a torturous hangover.

"I wonder how Haymitch does it," I think out loud as I nibble at the bread. I'm seeing how alike we really are, and that comforts me for some odd reason. We're worthy of each other, and in my opinion, worthiness is important in a relationship. I'm not half as kind or passionate as Peeta and Gale. But I'm witty. Clever. I'll give myself that. I'm not likable. I'm stubborn. These are all things I see in Haymitch, even with his addiction. That's just to cover up what the Games have done to him, yet it somehow makes it even more obvious that they destroyed him. I wonder if it will happen to me. What will they do to make me lose my self-sufficiency, my reputation, and even my mind? I shudder, glad that Haymitch still has his, when I hear someone say, "Does what?"

I look up, startled. I'd been so lost in my thoughts I didn't hear Haymitch come in, but he's less than a foot away from me, running an unsteady hand through his tousled hair. "Hangover," I reply sulkily as I rub my forehead. His shirt's still unbuttoned, and I can't help but stare at his scars. I feel a rush of affection and admiration for him. What he must have gone through… It seems worse than my injuries from the Arena, especially if the scars are so prominent.

He sighs and gently holds my face with one of his hands, tilting it upwards; his other hand is already firmly grasping a glass bottle filled with white liquor. "Listen, sweetheart," he begins with an expression on his face I can't quite pinpoint. "You don't want to go down this path. My path. Look at me." He sounds more serious than I've ever heard him.

"Why do you care?" I retort. "You didn't stop me last night. From drinking."

"I hate being a hypocrite," he replies bitterly. "I'll deny this if you ever mention it again, but I see you as an equal in a lot of ways. But," he pauses and the look on his face contorts sourly, as if there are words coming up that he doesn't want to say, "I can't let you become how I am. I… I care about you too much." He exhales as if it getting those words out lifted a weight off of his shoulders.

I feel my face go hot, and Haymitch grins in an I-can't-believe-you're-actually-blushing-about-this kind of way. It's hard to tell since his face is always at least slightly ruddy, but I think he's blushing, too. "If I told you that I cared about you a million times a day, you still wouldn't put down that bottle," I remind him.

He laughs sardonically. "Do you care about me, sweetheart?" he asks, his stone-grey eyes unflinching.

"Yes," I respond automatically. I don't even have to think. "Of course," I add more calmly.

He throws the bottle in his hand at the floor. I can't believe he'd waste good liquor like that. The next thing I know, I'm pulling him to me by clutching the ends of his shirt and closing the small gap between us.

Our lips collide roughly and for once the smell and taste of alcohol doesn't dominate; the electric feeling surging between us does. I feel a blazing hot force, an aura around us, as we twist and stumble and kiss.

I realize something and pull away to catch my breath and whisper, "This is what happened last night. That's how I got all of these marks on me."

His lips curve into a smile that reads I-knew-you'd-figure-it-out. He kisses the bruise on my neck and the scratch on my collarbone and works his way around me and I'm in total bliss.

For once, I'm not worried or confused about anything, and I'm sure he isn't, either. All we want is each other. He is my equal and I am his; we deserve each other and we both know it. Alcohol isn't on either of our minds. Nothing is, outside of me and him. It's just us right now. Raw. Unashamed. Exposed. And we can't get enough of us, together, in this relationship of sorts, and it's obvious in both our eyes.

Our new addiction is each other.

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><p><strong>FIN<strong>

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><p>Remember, reviews = love. x<p> 


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